


Better Worlds

by CorruptedWonder



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Divergence - Season 4/AFfC, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 04:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1805947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorruptedWonder/pseuds/CorruptedWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon Divergence from Season 4 of GoT, with elements from AFfC and several annoyed glances at D&D.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Embarkation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned these guys, I wouldn’t be able to make them do the horrible things GRRM can, so it’s quite a good thing that I don’t

Wind howled against the high towers of the Eyrie. As it roared past her to whip its chaos through her chambers, Sansa braced herself against the stones of her arched window and pulled her cloak more securely about her. The cold here had a way of creeping into a person’s bones that even the deepest snows at Winterfell couldn’t match. It permeated everything with a clear and piercing chill – _and it wasn’t just in the air._ It rose like a mist from the sleepless souls who dwelled in those high towers, cloaked their movements from all save the moon, which now cut a retreating path across the sky. It would be morning soon. Soon, the coming of the sun and the rising of its minions would make her Sansa no longer.

And so she was _restless_. She only wished to digest it all, for once. King’s Landing, her father’s execution – there had been no time, only fear. Fear for her life, for her future, for any hour of any day. Fear will make a person capable of acts that dance precariously at the edge of sanity, and Sansa found herself reflecting on her submissiveness then with a wave of disgust. Her lord father had not been so cowardly. He might perhaps have gone blindly to his death, but he had done so without betraying his values. Her lady mother… She sighed, and pressed her forehead against the icy stones, hiding her eyes from the moon. Life had taught her, harshly, that honor and power very rarely share the same path. Why then, she wondered, had it always been so hard for her to choose one or the other?

Looking down into the shadows of the mountains below her, her thoughts turned to Lord Baelish. No doubt at this hour tucked into his solar, his pot of ink growing gradually emptier as the sun hastened to illuminate his scheming. He willingly slept as little as her conscience limited her to, and she reflected on their natures now with a sense of dark understanding. He was a man who kept his true ambition constantly hidden, because to reveal it for an instant would be to risk his head. He didn’t want her – she was sure that’s what he felt she believed, eyeing her suspiciously from the entrance of her chambers just a few short days ago. He wanted _everything_. If the words her Aunt had spoken were true, his plans had begun in earnest long before she was anything of value. They had begun the moment he had obtained the vicious wound that had almost taken him out of life, out of the game. He’d never said as much, would never say as much, but servants talk and ladies listen. He’d meant to fight for love and win on those grounds, and life had cast him into the dirt for it. She knew her lady mother could not help that she didn’t return young Lord Baelish’s feelings, but her heart lingered with pain of sympathy over the loves she had sought. The loves that in return had only dealt her cold understanding and fear. Following the path of her own pain in her mind, she saw how easy it could be to give up love and honor for the sake of life.

Her forehead burned from the cold of the stones, and she drew away from the window and out of the moonbeam, watching from her shadowed bed as light flurries of snow whirled past. Perhaps they were not so different, the two of them. She felt comfort here in the dark, safety in places where she could not be seen. After King’s Landing and her Aunt’s death, Sansa wondered if she would ever trust another soul again. For a moment this evening, after she’d gained the privacy of her chambers and blown out the candle, she’d looked out that window and mourned the loss of her innocence. That moment had gone when the snows came, however, and here in the dark she now found her veins pulsing with a sense of power, the bright whirling of moonlit snow reflected in eyes that met the blackness wide-open and fearless. If she could not have trust, if she could not have honor, family, and _love_ , she would have _everything else_. Everything she could grasp at before the winds saw fit to extinguish her flame.

As if summoned by the force of her determination, a soft rapping sounded through the heavy wood of the door to her chambers. Sansa didn’t flinch, didn’t look away for a second from the abyss of her window, only uttered a low and knowing “Yes…?”

The latch clicked and the door edged open silently, giving enough space for a booted foot to pivot its owner across the threshold before it closed again, all in the space of a whisper. When it latched, the visitor pressed back against it to meet her eyes through the dark. She couldn’t clearly make out the lines on his face, but she knew he was weary from cups and parchment, and the fire in her eyes faltered a little.

“What is it that I want, Sansa?” His voice was a ragged whisper.

Sansa was not surprised. Suspicion had ridden on the backs of his eyes every time he’d looked at her since the trial, since that day in her chambers, since she’d descended the stairs of the Eyrie meeting his gaze with pride. She chuckled, the sound as icy as the wind that stole through the space between them. “Everything, m’lord.”

His breathing hitched, and he took a step forward. Just one, but enough for the moonlight to catch his face and show her the shadow in his eyes. Her heart began to beat faster at the sight of it. “And what exactly is _everything_?”

At this she faltered, for a moment. She’d thought, in the privacy of her own mind, that ‘everything’ meant power, riches, land, and control most of all. Looking at him now, seeing the strange vulnerability that etched his face, she was no longer certain. Perhaps, like her most secret of selves, it was not so black and white. Perhaps… She hesitated for a moment, drawing a breath and rising from her bed to step toward him. “Everything is what you lost, what you never had, what you wanted so badly you drove yourself into the shadows to escape. You want the bliss of innocence and contended days without giving it the power to destroy you. And…” She drew another breath, steadying herself for what was about to come. She hadn’t known she’d wanted it until she’d seen his eyes. “For a very long time, you’ve convinced yourself it’s impossible.”

She’d meant to take him by surprise. Meant to make his eyes widen, maybe cause his breath to catch again. Instead he only grinned slowly, a spark swirling in the depths of his eyes. “Dear Sansa, what does that make you?”

She hadn’t wanted to think about it, even here in the dark where she couldn’t lie to herself. She’d pushed it away with disdain, part of her still clinging to the childish fantasies of love and belonging she’d always harbored for herself. It rose through her throat now, almost a sob, but her eyes, fierce and wide again, stayed locked with his. “Nothing, m’lord. Another stone under your boot, as I’ve been to everyone. Nothing.”

The space between them vanished in a heartbeat, and suddenly a hand snaked through her Tully hair, pointing her face to his as another pulled her closer. His mouth, so close to hers she could taste the mint on his breath, pressed into a hard line as her eyes made their way up his features. As she locked eyes with him again, what she saw there made _her_ breath catch. Her lips parted in question but he cut her off. “If it takes the rest of my life, Sansa Stark, you will know just how wrong you are.” The words, almost an oath, were sealed then as he met her lips with his own, and Sansa’s reason left to dance with the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whhhheww. I have NO idea what I’m doing here. New to the fic world, still newer to the Petyr/Sansa creepyship of wonder. Do I need canon edits? Oh, quite, I’m sure. What am I attempting here? Well, originally I had plotted out a sort of “1001 Nights” thing for the two of them, but I have to say finding stories for them to tell one another is challenging. It may yet morph into such a thing – I simply wished to express the romantic side of evil. Hey. We’re twisted, but it can happen. ;) Review! I quite sorely need it, I’m afraid.


	2. Seas of Intent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa attempts to reconcile the reality of her situation with Lord Baelish, and come to an understanding.

Sansa flashed like a bolt of lightning into the still of the morning. With a puff of the sweet, mildly warmed air of a sunbeam, she found herself staring daylight head-on, feeling as though she’d stumbled into it out of a fever dream. Her hair clung to her face in mermaid tendrils, and for a moment she clutched the linens of her bed in fear. For a moment, she let herself be afraid of her situation.

Petyr’s sudden appearance in her chambers the previous evening, though not entirely unexpected, had led to transgressions that, here in the morning, left her feeling stripped. He had kissed her – her fingertips rose to her lips now in subconscious reflection – and in doing so had removed her ability to respond with any shred of stratagem. The tension between them, having hit a crescendo, transformed the kiss into something Sansa had never experienced. In an instant hands leapt to new frontiers, registering in her brain as hot flashes of sensation: the bristle of his cheek as her palm passed across it; his softness, warm and pulsing at his neck, cool and thick when her fingers found his hair; his hands – in her hair and at her waist, pressing their bodies into one another. This kiss had been entirely new, and it spoke in hidden language of places in the human heart that had only been used to wound her. Wound them both.

Sansa drew her fingers from her lips in recoil. That potency was dangerous, almost lulling her again into a place of dreams and romance. She could still feel his pulse on her lips, taste his mint and clove on her tongue. _Silly little bird_ , her mind spoke to her, _he, like all before him, only wants to keep you under his control._

Yes, his final words had been nothing but a sharp reminder of that dismal reality. Completely lost to him, Sansa was sure she would give way to him entirely when he snapped back from her, eyes blackened with lust and – was that fear? His features had somehow softened, and he looked as though he were vigorously young. She sucked in a sudden breath, both from need and surprise at his countenance, and in the space of that breath his face had changed. A bitterness snaked its way into the black pools of his eyes and his features set, making him look dangerous in the low light.

“Confine your concerns to the realm of your duties, _Alayne_ ,” his voice was low and hoarse, “You’ll be of use in time.”

Without another word, he broke from their entanglement and left her chambers. She could only stand there, flushed and confused. Had she been too liberal with her observations of him? Had she angered him thusly? She knew the vicious dichotomy in his personality that could shift him from ruthless to almost human, but every time she tried to understand it, it only left her feeling like a little child.

She swung her feet around to dangle from the edge of her bed and stretched. _He is broken,_ she decided. _There is something in that man that fears being connected to – loving – another person, and wisely so._ She knew, though, that to gain any semblance of control in her situation she would have to exploit that fear. The last of her nerves easing with this thought, she set her determination and rose from her bed as Alayne.

  

* * *

 

 

The day had been long and quiet, with no sign of Lord Baelish. Alayne had amused herself in her chambers at first, sewing dresses to suit her new persona, but had quickly tired of it and begun to walk the halls. She came to the library, and for a time preoccupied her brain with assorted histories of bloodlines. It would be good, she supposed, to understand the world from the perspective of powerful men. Lord Robert had made a boisterous appearance, weaseling from her stories of knights and great Lords before working himself into a slumber.

She found herself now watching the easy retreat of the sun, nerves on high at the measure of Petyr’s absence. Did he truly have nothing to say to her in the light of day? What cost to either of them did their closeness represent to him? What sickening plot could he forsake that closeness for?

Her thoughts only continued to darken. He could not own her like this. She might, for the moment, cower in his shadow for need of protection in a world of clever men, but it would not be so forever. Soon, whether through his machinations or her own, she would rise as his equal. What of him then? When she took her rightful place and commanded strong men to her cause, where did he plan to be? If not lurking in the shadows, a treacherous leech, then what? Her husband? No, she’d not let him lead her to that point without knowing his endgame. She was no child, no matter how the grey-green of his eyes had made her shiver. With a huff she abandoned the ledge of the window at which she sat, and made her way to Petyr’s chambers.

She meant to have it out with him. She meant to know, once and for all what his plans for her were. To tell him to his face the horrors he has wrought, to remind him that she knew him. To kiss his lips and tear at his clothes, eat his heart with her own to make him know what could be his, and, Gods willing, strike a bargain with the devil for the better of their own twisted lives. Enough was enough – they’d face whatever else as equals.

She reached the heavy door to his chambers and knocked, but didn’t wait for a response. Not intending to cause a scene or be heard by servants, she slipped in quickly and pushed the door shut behind her – but spun around into darkness. No candle lit this room, and it was only after her eyes adjusted that she saw the faint light of a setting sun cast across a barren desk. Color rose to her cheeks as her intensity of the moment before saw that it had nowhere to go, and she sighed. Where was he?

Walking to the desk, she ran her hand along it for a moment before taking a seat behind it. The space smelled of him – mint, wine, and musk, with threads of clove. Casting her eyes around the space to ensure she was alone, she leaned back and breathed in slowly. She hated it, for sure she was certain it stood as evidence of his power over her, but she missed him. She wanted the cunning fire of Littlefinger, that protection. She wanted to look into the heart of Petyr. She laughed, a low and melodic sound in the rust twilight of the room. _Silly bird_ , she reminded herself.

Absently she pulled at a drawer almost hidden under the ledge of the desk. As it opened, curiosity cleared her senses of reverie, and she moved closer to examine the contents. She found a stack of papers, all blank except for a folded sheet atop the stack. Sansa stood and drew it closer to the window, squinting at it in the fading light. It was a letter in Petyr’s neat but extravagant hand.

_Alayne –_

Her eyes widened, and she stuffed the folded paper into the bodice of her dress, shutting the desk drawer and leaving the room in haste. His casual address to her made her wonder what he could be playing at, but she couldn’t be found in his chambers, hovering in the dark and clutching a letter from him. It was not the proper place to even leave a letter, and she was certain Petyr had been aware of that when he wrote it. Stealing quickly through the halls she managed to traverse the path to her own chambers unseen, slipping in and securing the heavy latch behind her. A fire had been lit, but she was alone. Willing herself to still her breathing, she knelt before the fire and drew out the letter.

_Alayne –_

_My darling daughter, I had no doubt you’d be seeking my company. I apologize – I found call to depart before the sun had risen, and didn’t wish to disturb you. Business transactions have, for the moment, given me cause to pay a visit to King’s Landing. I shall return as soon as I am able, and we will discuss the terms of your impending betrothal to Harrold Hardyng. –_

Sansa’s eyed widened in shock. Betrothal? Another marriage? How could that be, with the possibility of Tyrion – she shuddered – being alive and well? She knew of Harrold Hardyng, from her studies of bloodlines she understood him to be the ward of Lady Waynwood, and ultimately the heir presumptive beyond – _oh, no_.

_He is a fine young man. I have no doubt you two should find you have plenty in common, Alayne. Until then, I trust you will fulfil your duties as any devoted daughter would._

_We will discuss your freedom in exploring my chambers at another time._

_Yours,_

_Lord Baelish._

 

 _Silly little bird._ Her fist closed around the letter in blind rage. He planned to marry her off, and, worse, to the first in line after Lord Robert who might be able to produce an heir. He was using her to solidify his grip on The Vale. And what of Lord Robert? She shivered. No doubt his plans were cruel. _He_ is cruel. Another person in a long line of many who only saw others – saw _her_ – as a means to an end. Her rage mingled with memories – of his skin, of his lips, of his _taste_. She couldn’t stand it. Throwing the letter into the fire and drawing her clenched fists to her body, she vowed to burn its vicious intent and his presence from her life. She would systematically remove him, and he wouldn’t know it until he had outlived his use.

 

* * *

 

Elsewhere, another pair of hands tightened their grip on the splintering wood of a deck rail, white-knuckled in suppression. Green eyes stared deep into the same sunset, emotion rippling microscopic fractures across a rigid frame. One word escaped – one word marked the passing of this internal storm, bathed as it was in the placid rusts of twilight:

“ _Sansa…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one where I want to sort of deviate from the set-up of the Harrold Hardyng plot line and give our dear Sansa more of a fighting reaction. I really want her to come into her own, and fiercely - otherwise how could she ever hope to hold equal ground with Petyr?
> 
> I know there was a gigantic gap in chapter posting. Forgive me - I wanted to study both writing styles and the characters more thoroughly before I proceeded. I needed to know who Sansa would become, as well as what direction to take with Petyr's actions . Also, working toward your master's degree eats up a lot of time. I've already begun work on the next chapter, and plan to have it up soon. ♡


	3. Islands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne prepares for her wedding, and Lord Baelish returns to The Vale.

Alayne fidgeted in her dress. Whilst internally, _Sansa_ might have delighted at the flighty garment, Alayne found it far too girlish. The bodice wrapped waves of emerald silk around her torso, stopping at the crook of her arms to wrap ‘round them and provide a modest but tempting bust line. It gave way to tendrils of wispy deep green and cream at the waist, and her hair had been given curl. Overall, she felt she looked like some childish forest spirit.

“Oh, Alayne. You truly are a summer child! How pretty!” Lady Waynwood called from behind her, beaming in approval. “I daresay your Lord Father knows his way around the fashions of the time.”

Alayne grinned, albeit a little begrudgingly. A man who impeccably dresses himself could be expected to have high standards for the dress of others. Sansa wondered for a moment if he had pictured her like this, spritely and the very image of summer. She didn’t want to be this girl – innocent and raven-haired, simpering in the shadow of her Lord Father. Still, she cast Lady Waynwood a proud look. “’Tis true, lady Waynwood. Father is a man of fine taste.”

 _Fine taste and poor attendance_ , she finished internally. Lady Waynwood prattled something about her being sure to capture Harrold’s heart and made her way out of Alayne’s chambers. Sansa sighed in relief – finally a moment to digest the sudden movement in Petyr’s plans.

His package had arrived yesterday morning. It contained only this dress, a small bird charm for Lord Robert, and a brief letter describing the terms of his return the following evening. Alayne had received no other word from him in his absence – now stretching into its fourth full moon – and in his letter he had been frank, almost cold:

_Alayne –_

_As you no doubt have been made aware, I have been in correspondence with Lady Waynwood concerning the details of your betrothal. There will be a feast at the Gates of the Moon by the time it next rises full - very soon after you receive this letter, I should think. You will finally get to meet young Harry – I know you must be as delighted as I am for you. With this letter I send proper attire – consider it a gift to yourself and Young Harry. I shall attend upon my arrival, and do expect you’ll be happy both in your place and in your eagerness to welcome me home._

_Yours,_

_Lord Baelish_

The letter had sent Sansa into internal hurricanes of rage. How _dare_ he! To dress her up like a doll after months of absence and parade her in front of a potential buyer. No discussion, no explanation to make her feel as though she were at least a valuable piece in his plan – though truth be told, she’d worked his intentions out the day that he had left.

Yet as the time had passed on, there was a fair amount of distraction to be had at the Eyrie. Lord Robert continued his training to be Lord of the Vale, spending time under the wing of good men. His health had not improved, but in Petyr’s absence it had also not waned.

Far away from him, Sansa’s anger at Petyr had been given room to fade. Try as she might, she could not work out his ultimate aim for himself. If securing power over The Vale had been a means of solidifying his own hold, how could he possibly give both the power of The Vale and of Winterfell to Harrold Hardyng? It mystified her – to kill Robert Arryn _and_ Harrold Hardyng would be a plot far too obvious regardless of how many hands play a role. Surely that couldn’t have been Petyr’s intent – to wed her off, kill her husband and claim her as his own, passed to him as the sullied byproduct of a power scheme. The more time passed between them, the more it seemed again as if his only intent had been to wed her to a proper suitor.

Indeed, Harrold’s family had been incredibly welcoming. Lady Waynwood – Lady Anya, as she often chirped at Alayne – had been nothing short of a ray of hope. Her kind, gentle demeanor and half-hidden bursts of wit had charmed both Sansa and Alayne from the very beginning. She was a true Lady, and her grace was a touch of softness that Sansa’s life had sorely missed.

In Petyr’s absence they had gotten to know one another quite well – keeping all formality in place, of course. Alayne was very aware of her low-born status, though Lady Anya did her level best to make her forget it. Still, it was easy for Sansa’s personality to bleed into Alayne’s. Lady Anya cawed consistently about Alayne’s “impeccable manners” and “distinguished countenance”, and raved about how blessed her beautiful boy would be to have her as a wife.

Sansa had flourished under such attention, and Petyr’s face had drifted to the back of her mind, where its features had again softened it into a symbol of good. She set her ire aside – she did not leave it, for fear that her worst assumptions about his nature could still prove true, but it was difficult, with no supporting evidence, and so much _distance_ between them, to hold on to a will to destroy him.

In actuality, she missed him – she’d wake at night sometimes, certain his eyes were on her. It had been difficult to calm her heart on those nights, and she lay awake trying her best to will the taste of his skin from her mouth. A part of her heart that had felt most alive that final night in her chambers now felt pained at the idea she was certain to wed another.

Then the letter. Commanding her like an owned pet! If Harrold – _Harry_ , she reminded herself – was half as good a man as Lady Anya made him out to be, she’d be happily rid of Petyr’s scheming.

Giving one last sigh at her spritely appearance, she left the dressing chambers and joined young Lord Robert en route to the feast.

 

* * *

 

 

He could not suppress the sense that he had been away too long.

As he had wound his way through the gates and yards and into the feast hall of the Gates of the Moon, the echoed sounds of laughter were both satisfying and alarming to Petyr Baelish. On the one hand, if all were enjoying themselves then nothing was amiss in his intentions. On the other, if Sansa’s pretty voice was one of the ones painting the walls with sound, he might be too late to pull her back into focus.

His business in King’s Landing, in truth, had resolved quickly. When one has so thoroughly insinuated one’s self into so many areas of a bustling, money-filled city, there stands almost no hindrance to complete freedom of movement. All manner of currency – from coin to flesh – can exchange hands almost unnoticed, and even still it would take a clever eye to know an exchange when witnessed. Petyr enjoyed this – he always had. Placing criminal activity in plain sight had always been one of his surest methods of remaining inconspicuous. Still, on this journey he kept a very low profile. No doubt word had gotten abroad about his involvement in Sansa Stark’s escape from King’s Landing. There were only so many fools you could pay or murder to maintain silence, and furiously scheming Lannisters who could come up with wild theories on their own with no informant to guide them.

Once his business had concluded, he had been relieved and on his way from the city when word of activities both in the North and in the East had reached him. Tales from both directions of such darkness and brute power had given Petyr cause to stay, hidden, in the festering depths of King’s Landing for far longer than he’d liked. Some information needed to be obtained first-hand, however, and outside of precious time lost in the realm of Sansa’s concern, he found himself thankful now that he had stayed.

Until he saw her.

Petyr Baelish had not stopped in his steps over the sight of a Lady since he was a boy, and the feeling brought such sickening surprise to him now that he recoiled from it and ducked into a shadowy corner of the hall’s entrance. Fortunately for him he had gone unnoticed; all eyes were trained to the young pair stepping in a sort of awkward box pattern in the center of the hall.

Sansa had never looked so… _beautiful_. She had always carried a certain girlish prettiness about her, but even in the comparatively short span of his absence it had matured about her into a sort of glow. So much of Catelyn played in the corners and shadows of her features, but she was a creature entirely unique. Even clunking around with the heavy-footed, near-oafish Harry-the-Heir she succeeded in a sort of poised grace.

The dance resolved itself and there was a scattering of applause from the surrounding feast-goers, accented by Lady Waynwood’s calls of “Oh, such beautiful children!”

Petyr smirked – he was far from annoyed at the Lady’s simple joy; Sansa was indeed beautiful, but she was far from being a child. Pressing himself against the cool of the rear wall, he sighed and willed both his pulse to slow and himself to remain unseen. Just a moment longer, to ascertain what had transpired in his absence. Just one more chance to look at her unhindered.

Ah, but she had seen him. Her startling blue eyes had locked themselves on his greens the moment he’d sighed, and she’d smiled.

He would regret the events that were to transpire that night for some time to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. So. Dunno what's-a-happenin', but I'm *still* writing. These guys just won't leave my brains alone. At this point I'm just getting it out of here so I can start work on another one - it's probably got some editing that needs doing. Sorry for the raw copy, but I'll fix it in the mawnin'. Right now, I needs the sleeps. x_X


	4. Dead Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality forces one to take new and dangerous pathways.

Petyr twisted his quill in his fingertips, grinding its point absently against the parchment. Ink wound out from the tip, bleeding across the grain of the paper like a sickness. At the side of his desk burned a candle, its wax already forming a considerable pool at its base.

_Enough._

Bristling in well-composed impatience, he stood, righted his doublet, picked up the candlestick and made his way from his chambers.

The two of them had kept their distance from one another during the feast. For Petyr, this had been an ultimate test of his control. She had stood there, in the center of the feast hall, looking head-to-toe a maiden, and had given him a smile he’d never seen cross her features. He had been a young, foolish boy when last a Lady’s countenance urged his feet to move. It had been the painful memory of that time, now etched forever on his body, that had rooted his feet to the stone floor. To kiss her then, in that place, would have been madness.

Instead he bade her welcome him, with the stiff and poisonous formality of a patriarch. She had obeyed, giving curtsy before him and pecking his cheek with a chaste kiss. Just that, and again she was whipped away from him. He had spent the remainder of the feast making small-talk with the present elders, keeping Sansa and Harrold hidden tightly in his periphery.

She had seemed to be enjoying herself with the oafish lad. This, and her demeanor – were these only seamless portrayals of her role, or had the Lady given in to this farce? In truth he had given her no reason to resist the charms of Lady Waynwood and the Young Falcon. Quite the opposite – he had _commanded_ she receive them well. So he had settled himself for the present on the idea that she had only grown into her role, and had followed his directive.

As the hour grew ever more late, however, Petyr had begun to change his mind. There had been a look exchanged between them, upon her maiden-like early departure from the feast. The look changed no expression, gave itself no outward sign, only said “ _Come._ ” She had known its meaning, and yet as each hour passed he heard no signal of her approach to his chambers. She was telling him something, and while Petyr often spoke in the language of hidden things, he would hear it from her Tully lips. He would hear it _now._

And so it was that he found himself outside her chamber door, in the hours when sheepishly contented Lords found their sleep. He didn’t knock, only pushed his way through and turned into the full of the chamber quickly to remove himself from more public spaces.

She had looked up at him, sitting in a low chair by the fire. She had been waiting for him and, again, she was smiling.

 

* * *

 

 

“You seek to manipulate me?” The tone in Petyr’s voice was exactly the one Sansa had expected, but still her smile faltered a little.

“I wanted you to come to me.” She flicked her eyes to her lap in moment of genuine reflection on the idea.

His face, now deadly blank in its seriousness, did not change in the slightest as he reached behind him and bolted her chamber door. His voice was low as he continued, “And this is how you get what you want.”

It was a question, regardless of its outward shape, and Sansa responded gently. “Only in this, Petyr. I’m terribly glad you’re home.” She paused, again checking her eyes to her lap. “You’ve been missed.”

His features finally broke, but only into that menacing half-grin that had so often made her feel like a child. He stayed pressed against the bulk of her chamber door. “Ah, but dear little _Alayne_. You’ve gotten on so well with our young Harrold and Lady Anya. Surely your time has not felt empty.”

Sansa faltered a little. He seemed angry at her, but why? She had only played a little game of cat and mouse. She had wanted to see him. “H..Harrold is as charming as you told me he would be, Lord Father.”

Something akin to a grimace passed its way across his features, but he quickly suppressed it. “Right out of your hero stories, is he, little bird?”

Her brow furrowed at this. “I don’t understand, m’lord. I thought your intentions were to wed me to a proper suitor? Harrold is a good fit- “

“ _Harrold_ was to be a means to an end, Sansa” He moved towards her now, voice sinking lower with the truth of his words.

Sansa balked. “So this _was_ a scheme!” She stared hard into Petyr’s face, trying to find any _shred_ that it might not be true. When she found none, her voice only rose. “You despicable creature! You meant to do away with Robert Arryn and-“

In seconds she found herself lifted from the chair and pressed hard against the stone wall of her chamber, one of his hands against her mouth. Unable to move, his eyes pierced directly into her. “Even song birds can sing _too much_ , Sansa.” He leaned in, pressing his lips close to her hear. He was musk, and clove, and mint and she swam in loving fear of him. “I would have killed _no one_. “

He had looked into her eyes for a moment, searching them for something, and had let her go, pacing back into the full of the room. Sansa had only faltered for a moment before again turning on him, this time in a whisper. “You’d have made someone do it for you, it wouldn’t be the first time. Did you mean to make me do it? Marry and man and kill him, for the sake of land and power? For _your_ power?” She stared at him, wide-eyed and accusing.

He chuckled, and it was a hollow sound that made Sansa’s stomach turn. He clicked his tongue at her. “Any fool with eyes would see through a plot like that. Do not think the bannermen would not ride for our heads.”

Again she faltered. Had she not thought the same thing herself? What, then, had been his goal? “I thought for a while, like a silly girl, that you only wanted for my happiness. Now that I’m reminded of how you _command_ me, of how you – you – You couldn’t possibly care about that at all. Tell me, Petyr.” She held his eyes with the force of her words. “Tell me _why_.”

“Instead you tell _me_ , Sansa – what is it that _you_ want?” He was still smirking. Even when his face was blank he never stopped _smirking_.

She thought for a moment, face contorted under the weight of her emotions. “I don’t understand, m’-“

“Don’t play, girl. What is it that you want? Do you still long for sweet tales of heroes? Flowers? The sing-song bravery of knights and good men?” He took a step towards her, voice still low, face still fiendish in its beauty in the firelight. “Do you need to be saved, Sansa?”

She searched his face for any hidden meaning in his words. Nothing there – nothing, but a strange and alluring glint in the pools of his eyes. “No.” She responded firmly, but it was not his victory. “No, m’lord. But Harry could be a chance at my freedom from the hell of that other world. If I wed him, no one can threaten me. I’ll have the power of The Vale behind me, and once I’ve freed myself of Tyrion and -”

“No matter where you hide, people will _always_ threaten you. Do you think, sweet, that ducking low, biding your time as the expectant wife of a young Lord, you’ll somehow remove yourself from the brutality of our world? “ Sansa flinched internally at this, and he continued. “There were people close to both of us who had assumed the same. They are not here to tell you the folly of that course.”

Her eyes widened a little, but she quickly hid her grief at the reminder.

He stepped even closer. “There are things happening in the North, Sansa. Men long dead walk these lands. In the East a dragon rises. Soon, even the summered streets and halls of King’s Landing will be no place for mortal Lords.”

He came close enough to reach her hand, and took it, further closing the space between them. His voice remained low, but had somehow become gentle. “I had wanted to give you a maiden’s happiness. “ He brushed a strand of her dark hair from the frame of her face with his remaining hand, and it lingered there in suspension. "I sought to give you a young and handsome husband,” – she thought she detected a note of bitterness as he said the words. “And with him the means to avenge your family. A means to move forward. Lord Robert is young. For a time we could guide him – he knows the secret of your identity, and we could forge a trust in him. Seat him as Lord of the Vale, our connection and tutelage promising security as well as a reach of command. Your pretty face, standing behind Young Harrold’s impish charm, could summon men to your cause and take back your home. That can no longer be. Winterfell is no longer a stronghold. Forces beyond their power threaten these men, and they will still fight their insidiously stupid wars. We must find another way to keep you safe. Our world might snuff you out before you even raise your banners…” He sucked in a breath, his face hardening. “I’ve loved you far too much to see you to that end.”

Sansa looked into his face, certain that her own was a map of shock. He had kissed her before. He had sent shocks through her body with the feel of his hands, but had never given more. He had consistently drawn her to him only to push her away again, and it spoke to her again of his internal fear.

He pulled back from her, reading the surprise in her eyes. After a moment, he continued in a whisper. “Your marriage to the young Falcon must needs wait.” With that he turned on his heal, and started towards the door.

“Petyr,” Sansa started, not even sure where her voice found its strength. He paused in his steps and, after a moment of deliberation, turned partly back towards her, his face unreadable. She wanted to smile at him again. Something inside of her wanted to take that broken part of him that hid and give it life… but this was not the time. This was affirmation, and it would take them meeting in equal measure. His eyebrow rose in silent question, and after hesitating a moment more, she dared. “Could I not just be with _you_?”

He blinked, brows coming together in whirring thought. For a moment he searched her face – it was then again that she smiled, albeit nervously. The moment stretched on for what felt like an eternity, his eyes devouring her, searching for any sign of manipulative intent. He found _none_ , and in the space of a few strides he had claimed her mouth, frenzied in intent. Sansa’s senses accepted him again on a primal level – his scent, his hands as he wrapped them into her hair and into the curve of her back. He gently bit at her lip, and she granted him entry, tongues meeting in chaos. Her own hands raked themselves through his hair, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. Sansa felt a heat growing within her that had only been hinted at that night in her chambers so long ago. It sent blind shocks of action through her, urging her arms to pull him tighter and her voice to echo his in moan.

He pulled back, grey temples tousled and eyes wide with lust and fear. They could only look at each other, breathless and high in color, until Sansa took his hands in hers and drew them to her bodice. He gripped it, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of her bosom before making a slow ascent to connect with her own. As they did, his hands gave a great pull, and he tore her bodice open, snaking a hand quickly into it to grip her waist through the linen of her smallclothes even as his mouth staked its claim on her collarbone.

Sansa had the keenest sensation of falling, as if slowly drifting into the heart of a drum. The part of her brain that knew reason, that knew the reality of Petyr Baelish tried one last time to see clearly, and she fisted her hand into his hair to pull his frantic lips from her skin. He looked boyish, eyes dancing with a fevered wonder-lust. She was compelled to kiss him again, and the drum swallowed her whole.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly a lot of errors. I'm writing these between bouts of studying for exams and living in a pretend world where I'm not attending college. I'll do my best to slow down and actually do some editing. Sorry for any and all errors. 
> 
> Also, I'm ridiculously excited about the coming season. Lawd, have you guys seen Tumblr lately? It's beautiful. I loves you guys.


	5. Levees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, but more soon.

The rough surface of the rock dug into the exposed skin of Sansa’s neck and the cold air shocked her lungs. She felt his contrasting heat rolling into her like waves to a shore, crashing hardest in the places where their bodies touched. There would be marks on her, scratches from the rock, bruises from his arms lifting her legs and from the way his hips pinned hers to the boulder. Sansa couldn’t remember a time where she would’ve cared less – every mark on her would be a map of the secrets they shared. The life that lay hidden, the lust that consumed them both.  
  
It had been two weeks since that night in her chambers. Then, their joining had been fevered but gentle. Petyr had used his hands, his mouth, and eventually the frenzied rhythm of his hips to teach her that physical love was not a thing to be so frightened of. He had made her sing his name in a chorus of desperate shouts, smirking as each time his hand freed itself to muffle the song. When he’d brought her over the edge he had never broken eye contact, stilling his hips to watch her in such throws. His face had grown oddly serious in that moment, and he brushed the hair from her dampened face, kissed her, and rested his head just below the swell of her breast. When Sansa had awoken in the still hours of the night, she had found him there still, face free of lines and oddly boyish in his sleep.

Now, he thrust into her with abandon, having ridden them some distance now from the Eyrie he took her against the first surface he could find. Since that first night in her chambers he had been insatiable, barely being able to keep his hands off of her whilst still in the Eyrie. Sansa had enjoyed his attentions – the way his hips had thrust against her skirts in a chance encounter in the halls, his hand squeezing her thigh as she sat next to him at the banquet table, eyes barely hiding his lust any time she entered a room he inhabited – but the intensity of them worried her. It was as though he’d starved for this, whatever it was that had formed between them, and now that he had it in his clutches he drank of it as though it would soon run dry. He was forgetting strategy. They had not discussed their next intended move since that first night, and any mention of her impending wedding to Harrold Hardyng received quipped dismissal from Petyr. For the most part, he seemed strictly consumed with consuming _her._

And so she let him. His hips drove her further up the rock’s surface, and her legs clamped around his waist, driving him deeper into her. The bodice of her dress lay open, and between shouted moans he tasted the tips of her breasts, her fingers tangling in his grey-black waves and her lips curling upwards in a smile born of ecstasy. By now she had already peaked a handful of times and when another hit her, brought on by the tell-tale spasm in Petyr’s hips and the lip-bruising kiss he joined with it, she was sure she could never deserve to feel so satisfied in a thousand lifetimes.

Afterward, she lay curled into Petyr’s chest in the shadow of the boulder, enjoying for a moment the silence and privacy such distance from the Eyrie afforded them. She wanted to ask so many things – whether the plan to marry her to Harrold Hardyng must proceed, whether the unsettling forces in the East and North meant they themselves would need to run, what exactly this new development in their relationship actually meant, if anything. Much as he’d not spoken of their coming maneuvers, he’d also mentioned no word of love, of wanting her for himself. He’d only said it that once, that night in her chambers, and even then it’d been laced with bitterness and grief. Even now he looked far away, removed from the closeness implied by the way she lay against him. His hand, draped loosely around her waist, was his only engagement.

After what seemed an entire afternoon, he finally spoke, voice cracking against either the weight of his thoughts or the newness of the broken silence. “Sansa,” he started, giving pause so that she might look him in the eyes. She did, and he continued, “I’m dying.”


	6. Tide

“For the last time, sweetling, I cannot tell you what it is. The maester only said it was a progressive sickness, and that I might last for a while before my body slowly shuts down.” His face was remarkably blank in the firelight, only a hint of annoyance tinting his voice.

Though they had ridden back to the Eyrie in silence at Petyr’s insistence, Sansa had questioned him endlessly upon their arrival. She was certain he had tired of it some time ago – the sun had moved below the mountains now and it occurred to her that they had spent hours tucked away in his solar. She sat opposite him now in front of the flames, unable to touch him for the sick feeling that claimed her limbs.

“You will slowly waste… and then die…” She sounded the words out slowly, trying both to imprint them in her mind and to override the rising lump in her throat. Crying would do no good, no matter how badly a part of her wanted to. She had thought, for a moment in time, that this was her salvation. That _he_ , unlikely in his manifestation, was her knight. _Silly girl_. She bit her lip, and met his eyes. For an instant she saw frustration there, but it sank back to the depths as quickly as it had surfaced.

“Yes. It is the way of all men, only mine will happen much more quickly.” He raised an eyebrow, running the knuckle of an index finger in the bristle of his moustache, looking through her at something farther away. “Enough, Sansa. The hour is late and we’ve raised enough suspicion being cocooned for so long.” He stood, offering her his hand to raise her from her seat. Wrapping his arms loosely about her waist, he pressed his forehead to hers. “You are strong. Stronger than many of the women I’ve known. You can face what lies ahead without me, if you must.” He drew back some and tapped her forehead gently, eyes lingering on her hair for a second longer than they should, as always. “You’ve already learned so much. Bid me goodnight, love. Tomorrow, we move forward in whatever way we must.”

His hands cupped her face then, and Sansa leaned in to kiss him. It was chaste and sweet, but lingering, and the stirring that she felt made turning and walking from his embrace all the more difficult. The last she saw of him before she left the room, his attention had turned again to the firelight, and he looked every inch of him a damned soul.

 

* * *

 

 

King’s Landing smelled of shit and decay. The air was thick with it, leaving the skin it came into contact with feeling almost greasy. Still, there were those so devout in their beliefs that cutting their skin ritualistically, further exposing them to the fetid air, was an honor.

It was a group of such people, clad in dirt-covered wool, feet bare in the muck of the street, who marched in angered frenzy towards one of many brothels that grew like sickness in the city. It was to be the second of such establishments, owned as they were in majority by Petyr Baelish, to be converged upon in as many days. The intent of the mob was born on their stained faces – to purge the city, to wash it clean of such human filth by any means necessary, rendering those responsible at the mercy of the Seven.

Moving swiftly, they reached the steps of their intended target, the leader of the mob setting one foot on the stone before being halted.

 

“Ah, I’m sorry boys. You’re a bit late, I’m afraid. This establishment is now permanently closed.” The man, a thin, dark-haired, greasy looking fellow smiled a wide, yellow-toothed, disgustingly comfortable smile. “Perhaps you’ll find what you’re looking for elsewhere?”

Looking past the man, the foremost Sparrow could see that there were heavy chains securing the entrance to the brothel. He persisted. “We know the sins that are committed in this place. We –“

“Sins? Oh, heavens, no.” The dark-haired man let out high-pitched laugh. The level of enjoyment he seemed to take hardened the look on the Sparrow’s face. “Certainly not anything as egregious as an old, withered man leading so many young boys astray.” His face grew sinister, all traces of humor disappearing completely. “Tell me now, how much you love him. How much he loves _you_.”

The Sparrow took another step up, and two very large men previously flanking the dark-haired stranger moved in front of him in a flurry of steel. The Sparrow stopped, eyes narrowing at the man through his guards’ blockade. “There are many more of these festering wounds all throughout King’s Landing. We’ll see them all burned, and Petyr Baelish will answer for his whore-mongering.”

As the Sparrows turned to leave, the dark-haired man called out to them again. “Good luck finding him, boys. Oh, do be careful you don’t trip over your own hypocrisy. When you walk in such high places, it can surprise you how many daggers await you beneath your feet.” His laugh again sounded, startling in its hideous comfort, and his guards followed him down the street.

When the Sparrows arrived at the next known brothel operated by Petyr Baelish, they were greeted by closed doors, locked tight with the same heavy chain they would come to find sealing them all. It was as though he had unwound his tendrils of power one-by-one, and had vanished.

 

* * *

 

 

“Yes, sweetling. That’s perfect. If you want to stab yourself, that is.” Petyr’s voice was warm with humor, and a mischievous grin graced his features.

Sansa let out a huff of frustration, tossing the knife into the snow at her feet. “I don’t understand the motion you’re talking about, or how that’s going to somehow put the knife on a straight line to my target.”

Petyr picked up her knife and, gripping it with it resting against his index finger, whipped his forearm in the direction of their practice tree. The knife struck deep. “The motion needs to be a sort of whipping forward, but fluid. If you do it correctly, the knife will not spin, and will move in a perfectly straight line from your hand to your target. The moment of release is critical. It’s important to keep it from spinning, so that the whole thing is less obvious, and much faster.” He went to the tree and retrieved the knife, handing it back to Sansa. “Again.”

So obliged him, and though it didn’t travel in a straight line, it did get considerably further than before. She picked up the knife and looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a grin. “I know you want to make sure I can defend myself, but I think I’d much rather be spending this time in some other way.”

Petyr smirked in response and extended his hand. “Come. Let’s walk. The snows have ceased and it’s deceptively warm. We should enjoy it.”

Relieved, Sansa obeyed readily and took his hand, walking next to him in silence for a time. Two moons had passed since Petyr had told her of his sickness, and though he largely gave no sign of it, shadows had just begun to form under his eyes, and Sansa ventured that he had perhaps lost a little weight. Still, his grip on her hand was firm and warm, his stolen embraces still as oddly sheltering as ever, so she dared not speak a word of it.

Instead, they had enjoyed themselves and their time. In the Eyrie they played the stern Uncle and dutiful niece. Petyr had made Sansa read to him from the vast histories that sat on shelves in the library, had lectured her at length about the value of grain and land. In quiet moments, when they were sure they weren’t observed, their kisses were sweet but passionate, Petyr’s hands claiming her in touch as much as was possible before they separated. When they could, like now, they stole away for privacy, and it was privacy they found as Petyr led them into the hanging shade of a snow-heavy Cedar. There, he pressed her against the bark of the tree and kissed her for a long time, very gently. Moved by him, Sansa tried to thread her fingers through his hair, but he pinned her wrist to the tree and held it there, continuing only to kiss her in a slow, almost reverent way.

He only pulled away when the sound of horses invaded their space. Sansa moved to step out from under the tree, but Petyr’s fingers closed around her arm and his eyes told her to wait. Through a gap in the branches, Sansa caught a glimpse of blonde and a strong jaw. _Harrold._

Her eyes cut back to Petyr’s, and she could see by the look on his face that he knew exactly who the riders were. She stared for a moment, piecing it together in her mind, a look of thin disgust passing across her features. “…we’re to be married.”

Petyr’s lip hitched slowly into his signature smirk. “In a fortnight, you will be Lady Hardyng.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, Petyr looks to be changing his mind an awful lot. There's a method to the madness, I swear, but I don't think that he'd give it over to us so easily.


End file.
